Are We Human
by Absoluteroro
Summary: A collection displaying the humanity of various characters.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Bruce Wayne/Batman, Alfred, don't belong to me.  
I've always loved to entertain the idea that Batman is just that. A man. This will be one of many one-shots about Bruce Wayne's humanity/weakness. Times of our Dark Knight being vulnerable.

* * *

**"Empty Glass/Bitter"**

Bitter.

The aftertaste of the vodka slid down my throat, setting fire as it went.

With a slight grimace I slammed the shot glass onto the glass table beside me, empty.

Dark eyebrows were knit in concentration as I stared at Gotham City's skyline, _stark _and _harsh_.

Dried tears had left their salted trails running down my cheeks.

I heard the soft footfalls behind me, the hushed tinkling of glass, the subdued sound of a liquid being poured.

I didn't say anything.

I didn't have to.

I simply reached for the refilled glass, and without taking my unrelenting gaze from the window, I brought it to my lips, tilted my head back...

And with a gulp I was done, the small glass placed back beside me.

_Thanks Alfred._

I heard the receding footsteps of the older man, the silver tray he carried underarm.

_You're welcome Mr. Wayne._


	2. Apathy

A/N: When does fighting for what's right for so long become halfhearted? When do heroic efforts and morally conscious actions become automatic?

* * *

"Apathy"

Chest heaving with deep and erratic breaths I stared into the clouded puddle.

My gaze transifxed on the watery stranger beneath me.

He watched me with those dark eyes.

As if he saw right through me.

Right through Batman.

Saw all they way to **Bruce**.

I cringed.

The blood of the man I had beaten trickled slowly into the puddle.

A frothy mixture of mud and blood swirled together briefly, before settling into an unfathomable murky depth.

The stranger didn't flinch, or wince, he simply watched.

His unnerving observance never wavered, his was searching my eyes.

For something.

Anything.

_"The eyes are the window to the soul."_

He found nothing.

I realized with no remorse, and a surprising lack of my usual show of, subconsciously, feigned morality, that this stranger was me.

I had broken my one rule.

_And how long had my heart been missing?_


	3. The Thing About Women

A/N: She is Harley Quinn.

* * *

"Women"

If it's one thing I've learned about women is--

They either _bitched _or** killed** you.

And as that sequined red whore breathed down my neck, the weak noise of her eyes filing my impatience to an edge, while her painted acrylic nails dug into my skin; I knew which was which.

She was killing me.

_I knew I should have slit the bitch's throat when I had the chance_.


	4. Sacrifice

A/N: It takes a lot to be Batman's Batman. Titled so because Alfred can't comfort Bruce, it pains him not to do so, but he wants him to understand, to realize, even if he is the Caped Crusader, he's still a man. Tough love if you will.

* * *

**"Sacrifice"**

After hours of flirting with the very idea of the thing, sleep had finally come to me.

Heavy lids were slowly curtaining the dulling eyes beneath them while the aged and weary body had sunken into the thick mattress.

_To sleep at last, old chap._

In the early stages of slumber I felt my body stiffen, working for Mr. Wayne had kept this bag of bones on its feet, always was it to be at the ready, and tonight was no exception, to my dismay.

My waning senses had picked up something unfamiliar.

With a start I wrenched open my eyes, and painfully, sat up.

There were noises in the kitchen, shuffling, a loud movement of feet.

_An intruder perhaps? Or Mr. Wayne coming in late as usual?_

Sparing a bleary-eyed glance at the clock beside my bed, the old timepiece was ticking mutely, its face covered in an ancient glass that nearly blurred the roman numerals from view.

Squinting I managed to catch the wriggling shapes through my dwindling eyesight.

_4AM. It's Bruce all right._

I swung two thin legs over the bed, sliding heavy feet into well-worn slippers, and slid a modest robe over the thinning and varicose skin of my not-what-it-used-to-be body.

Padding softly downstairs, I could just faintly hear strange muffled sounds.

Concerned, I quickened my pace, but stopped suddenly, five steps from the bottom.

From my view, through the railings of the intricate staircase I could just make out the form of Mr. Wayne.

He was still in the armour and suit that was the attire for his nightly endeavors, but the leather cowl, to complete the look, was gone from his head.

Instead it lay discarded at his feet, along with, oddly enough, a singed red ribbon.

It wasn't just the scene before me that had stopped me, it was what Mr. Wayne, what Bruce, was doing that had so abruptly changed my course of action.

Gotham's protector, her _guardian_, Alfred's ward, _his _Bruce...was crying.

His frame, large and formidable, especially in the suit, was shaking violently with silent sobs, while his large hands, the hands Alfred had personally seen reach out to help, or to destroy, were simply cradling his unmasked face.

The scorched ribbon lay at his feet, and from his peripheral Alfred saw it change shape, he saw the plait that it was wrapped around once upon a time, he saw the girl with the long hair who wore it piled high in pretty little braids, he saw the fire that killed her.

In that moment I saw everything, the girl, the fire, the horror, the man that was just a few seconds to late, and my eyes watered, _and I began to cry too_.

Bruce had let out a louder sob, and it quickly turned into a guttural shout of anger, as he upturned his face to the ceiling, his fists clenching.

"She was just a little girl!"

His tensed knuckles met with plaster, the skin split and small rivulets of blood dripped down along the wall.

Voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, he cradled his head in his arms, the tears never stopping.

"She was just...a little...girl..."

With a heavy heart, the older man tore his gaze from the sight, tears silently flowing down his pale cheeks, and retreated up the stairs.

_And you're just a man Mr. Wayne. You can't save everyone._


	5. No Rest

A/N: Nuit blanche, a french phrase for a "sleepless night", or literally translated as, white night. (Wordplay) Since Jim reflects on Harvey in his last moments, the "_white knight"_ of Gotham_,_ while he experiences a _white night._

* * *

**"No Rest For The Weary"**

It was another sleepless night.

Jim didn't mind, he could lay in the dark for hours, just there, while his wife slept soundly beside him.

She was so happy, so unaware, so fragile.

He stared unflinchingly into the darkness, afraid for his wife's fragility, for his daughter, for his son, their innocence.

He had to protect them.

Even he had to admit Batman wasn't invincible.

He was just like himself, a man, mere and mortal.

_The only difference between a hero and a coward is one step sideways._

To the left was Batman, omniscient, always watching, lurking there, just beyond the peripheral to save at the last minute.

To the right was little Jim Gordon, undertaking the burden of the city as best as he knew how, front and center, for all to see his mistakes when he failed.

Judge Janet Surrillo.

Gillian B. Loeb.

Rachel Dawes.

...Harvey Dent.

Not to mention the _countless _lives lost in the explosions, the shootings, the _chaos._

All mistakes, all of his mistakes.

He had stared into the abyss, those eyes were not the same, he had been in hell, his only son, at gunpoint, he had been face to face with the devil, the corruption of the best is the worst, but--

He had lived.

His son had lived.

And perversely enough, the memory of the monster that could have changed it all, had lived.

Gotham couldn't know the truth, he made an oath to _serve and protect_, even if it meant to lie.

To turn his back on the only man, mortal or not, that had saved the city more than it deserved to be saved.

_It could have been much worse._

With a sigh, the father, the husband, the police commissioner, the...liar, peered through narrowed eyes into the blankness, the infinite nothing, and was brave.

For himself, for his family, for Gotham.

It was another sleepless night.

And Jim didn't mind, he had lives at stake.

He had a city to take care of.

Most of all, he had a _promise_ to keep, and a _lie_ to carry.


End file.
